A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,101

ankle, as she sprawled amid pillows and sheets. She held a golden goblet in her left hand and stroked her own breast with her right. Her eyes were half closed, her expression rapturous.

A pipe sat in a dish on the table beside the bed, a thin stream of white smoke drifting heavenward. Vera did not have Oak’s eye for artistic details, but this painting looked very like Dirk’s other nudes.

Very, very like them. It felt exactly like a Dirk Channing.

“Magnificent,” Longacre said, taking the place at Vera’s side. He stood too close, but she did not give him the satisfaction of moving away. “Utterly captivating and worth a very great deal.”

“I did not pose for that painting.”

“Oh, perhaps not, but your husband doubtless had both opportunity and imagination sufficient to create the likeness anyway. How I do envy him those privileges. There’s a French comte, a fellow who somehow managed to salvage a fortune from all the madness, and he is particularly fond of red hair.”

“You cannot sell that, and Dirk did not give it to you.” Vera’s voice betrayed her with a tremor, as she realized the signature was either Dirk’s or an exact copy.

“Believe what you like, Vera Channing. I will sell that painting unless you pose in a similarly uninhibited manner for the artist of my choice.”

Vera again felt like that lightning-struck tree, but the emotion that consumed her was rage. “I will do no such thing. Go ahead and sell that… that nonsense to your wealthy French friend.”

Longacre drew a finger along her jaw. “Dirk said you have hidden reserves of determination. He loved that about you, while I don’t find that quality at all attractive in a woman. Allow me to present you with a bit more context. You either model as I please to have you model, or I will ruin Oak Dorning. I had enough eyes and ears at Merlin Hall to know you’ve grown quite fond of our mutual friend.”

Longacre stepped closer to the painting and took a quizzing glass from his pocket. He examined the area of the painting devoted to the woman’s most intimate parts, then glanced assessingly at Vera’s hair.

“You cannot ruin Oak Dorning,” she said. “He is both honorable and talented and has committed no transgression that Society would censure him for. He has already taken his first paying commission, and many more are likely to follow.”

Even as Vera’s rage blended with a gnawing fear, she could also sense a puzzle. Why was Longacre doing this? Many women were willing to take coin to serve as nude models. What drove Longacre to violate her dignity this way?

“I can ruin anybody,” Longacre said, offering her a pleasant smile. “Did you know Mr. Dorning has already slept with the woman who offered him his first commission? She hasn’t complained about his prowess in bed, but she’s none too impressed with his artistic skills. I doubt she’ll pay him for either.”

Oak would never, ever, not in a million, starving years…

“Mr. Longacre, do you truly mean to imply that in the history of portraiture, no artist has slept with a patron or subject? Not once? That this happens in only the most debauched situations?”

Longacre’s smile disappeared. “Dorning can swive his way from here to Carlton House for all I care, and you’re right—a good-looking young man like that, taking what’s on offer, might not be remarked. But if I put it about that his work is inferior, that he has a particular disease so far gone that it affects his mind, that he cannot control his drinking… then his dream is over before it begins, and that would be a pity. He will never paint professionally unless you do as I say.”

“Why?” Vera asked, turning her back on the easel. “You will ruin me or ruin Oak Dorning, and neither one of us has harmed you in any fashion.”

Longacre gave her another flesh-crawling perusal. “Dirk Channing loved you. He bragged about your wifely devotion, but you were never more than a consolation to him. The woman he loved above all others, the one who made him an artist, was Anna Beaumont. For her devotion, he ruined her as thoroughly as I could ruin you—unless you pose for me like the harlot Anna became for Dirk.”

“Pose for you?” Vera asked.

“Oh, no. For an artist whose skill far exceeds my own.”

A tap sounded on the library door. Longacre admitted a butler holding a card tray. “Mr. Oak Dorning come to call, sir. He’s in